Chapter 2 – Cyril
The house is too quiet, like it’s haunted by silence. It’s the kind of stillness that presses on your ears, making you think about the things you have long forgotten.
The foyer is empty when I walk in, and the guards at the gate don’t say a word. They never do unless they absolutely need to. My coat comes off in one smooth motion, landing on the hook without effort. Habit. Muscle memory.
But my thoughts—those are far from still.
Enya Hart.
The name sticks.
She stood there this morning with dirt on her jeans and my son pressed to her side like she was the only safe thing left in the world. She didn’t flinch when I raised my voice. Didn’t shrink. Her eyes didn’t dart around, looking for an escape.
She looked me in the eye.
And she told me he was just being a boy.
No excuses or trembling. No scripted apology like the previous nannies. Just a steady voice and arms wrapped around my son like he was the most precious thing in the world.
I step into my study and pour a drink: whiskey, neat. The good kind. The kind I reserve for nights I want to forget.
I think about the first time she walked into this house, into this life. It was only a week ago, but her presence has already made Ren a much happier kid.
The interview had been brief. My housekeeper, Anaya, sat across from her in the study, shuffling papers. I stayed in the wingback chair near the fireplace, pretending to skim through reports, but I had been watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She sat upright, hands clasped neatly in her lap, but not rigid. Composed. Calm.
She didn’t try to charm anyone, didn’t oversell her experience. She answered every question clearly, respectfully, but not timidly.
And then there was Ren.
He watched her the whole time, head tilted, not saying a word.
When she smiled at him just a little, not overdone, he returned the gesture, telling her to come back.
That was all I needed.
I’d hired her but dismissed her in my mind before she even left the room. Too soft and gentle. This house didn’t have room for softness. Not anymore.
But I have cameras. Always have cameras.
I saw her singing while she made breakfast. Singing to Ren while slicing fruit, tapping her foot as she stirred oatmeal.
I watched her use voices during story time like the books were alive. I watched her comfort Ren when he cried after scraping his knee. How she crouched to his level and whispered, “It’s okay to be upset. But you’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The way she laughed when he made a joke about a squirrel in the garden.
She spoke to Anaya, the housekeeper, like they were equals. Like this place didn’t intimidate her and she didn’t know she was standing in the center of a lion’s den.
She didn’t belong here. Not in this world. Not in my world. She’s too fucking bright. Too good. And yet….
I can’t fucking stop thinking about her. My kid’s nanny. It doesn’t get more cliché than this.
I haven’t felt like this about anyone since Sora died. Haven’t had the time, the energy, or the interest. I’ve had women. Plenty of them. They come and go, eager for what my name offers them, careful not to look too closely.
But Enya? She’s not looking for anything. She’s just here for what’s most precious to me: messy bun, soft eyes, and a voice that doesn’t tremble even when I give her a reason to. She holds my son like he’s hers. And Ren actually likes her, trusts her. That’s never happened before.
Which means she’s off-limits. Absolutely, completely off-fucking-limits.
And yet, I can’t get her out of my goddamn head, or the defiance in her voice when she said, “Kids fall. I took care of him.”
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
I settle deeper into the leather armchair across from the fireplace. The drink burns down my throat as I take a slow sip, the sharpness grounding me.
Alvise clears his throat from the seat beside me. He’s been here ten minutes, waiting for me to stop brooding and start listening.
I glance at him. "You always sit soundlessly this long, or am I just that fun to watch?"
He smirks, not missing a beat. "I figured I’d let you finish mentally murdering whatever poor bastard pissed you off today."
"That’s generous."
"Don’t mention it," he says, then leans forward, all humor gone. "Brooklyn shipment was hit."
Fuck me.
The last time it happened, we lost more than product. We lost Henry, a loyal ex-soldier who had been ten years under my command. He bled out before backup could reach him, pinned between a shipping crate and a warehouse wall that caught fire in the crossfire.
That night still pisses me off.
The fire was ruled accidental, but I know better. Fiore’s men left no prints, no footage. Just a charred warehouse and a bullet in Henry’s spine.
I set the glass down with a dull thud. “Fucking hell. Again?”
“Two men dead. Cargo’s gone.”
Gael, silent and steady behind him, steps forward and passes me the iPad with photos. I see bloodied pavements, empty crates, and clean kill shots.
“This wasn’t some amateur street crew,” Alvise mutters. “It’s too clean.”
I swipe through the photos. Bullet angles. Entry points. The efficiency.
“Fiore,” I say.
Gael gives a tight nod. “Silent breach. Masked shooters. Nothing left behind.”
“They’re moving in,” I mutter. “Tightening their grip in the boroughs.”
“Or someone’s feeding them the map,” Alvise adds.
I don’t respond to that. I just lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and stare into the fireplace that isn’t lit.
“There’s a pattern,” Alvise continues. “They’ve been buying property near our docks and buildings. Quietly. Under shell companies. No public trail. But the money? It’s old. Smart and European.”
“Names?”
“None that hold. Everything slides through holding groups and dead companies.”
I lean back. A sharp pulse kicks behind my eyes, fueled by rage more than exhaustion.
“Every fucking time,” I mutter. “They slip the net like it’s nothing. Like we’re amateurs.”
Alvise’s face hardens. “Whoever this is, he’s Fiore’s ghost. Every time we get close, he vanishes like smoke. No name. No face. Just scorched earth in his wake.”
I grit my teeth. “Ghosts don’t make people bleed.”
“No,” Alvise says quietly. “But this one’s about to.”
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, watching the way the amber liquid catches the light.
There’s something about all of it that doesn’t sit right. The precision of the hit. The properties changing hands. And the way this shadow figure always stays just out of reach.
It reminds me of someone who knows how we move. Someone who understands how we think.
“Double security on every shipment this week,” I say finally. “Pull the dock rotations. I want eyes on every inch of waterfront property within five miles of our holdings.”
Gael nods.
“And Alvise—keep digging. Someone’s leaving footprints, even if they’re faint.”
He tips his head once in silent agreement.
I want to brood in peace. But work pulls me back in. Logistics. Threats. The pieces on the board that need moving, the faces that need watching.
Alvise starts listing out names. Gael adds a location. And just like that, I’m in it again, in the calculated pulse of our world.
There’s no room for distraction. Not now.
“Recover what you can from the shipment,” I say. “I want every man who was on-site reinterrogated. Strip it down. Who knew, who didn’t, and who got sloppy.”
Alvise nods. “Already moving.”
“Any property with a Fiore tie, even through five layers of bullshit corporations; I want it avoided for now. Let them think we’re backing off.”
Gael lifts a brow but doesn’t question it. He knows better.
“Whoever this bastard is,” I growl, “he’s getting bold.”
But even as I speak, my mind reels. Slipping isn’t an option I can afford.
Not when bodies are falling and territory is being chipped away by cowards who hide behind paper trails and masked shooters.
This is my legacy. My son’s future. And I’ve built it with blood and the burden of every hard choice I’ve made.
Since Sora died, I’ve run this family with one priority: keep it alive long enough for Ren to either inherit something worth having or walk away from with his life intact. That means no distractions. No softness. No missteps.
I reach into the drawer beneath the table and pull out a cigar. Clip. Strike. Light.
Smoke curls upward, slow and thick. I watch it swirl and vanish.
“They want a ghost?” I mutter. “Then I’ll show them what it looks like when one fights back.”
Outside, the city glows like it’s finally at peace. Lights shimmer through tall windows, but I know it’s just a lie dressed in glass and gold. New York can never be at peace. Just like me.